


Stalemate

by joannabelle



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gore, M/M, Suicidal Ideation, This is cruel, Torture, heed the warnings please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4630080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/pseuds/joannabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snippet; where Melkor is made of stone, and Mairon lives a lie.  </p>
<p>Please read the warnings.  This is short; and it is mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stalemate

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t know own these characters or Tolkien’s magnificent world.  
> Rating: M for gore.  
> Warnings: Gore. Torture. Suicidal ideation. You are warned.

 

* * *

 

  
And it is in these moments, that Melkor scares Mairon _senseless_.  
  
The cold water drips down the stone, as the stale stench of moulding bone thicks through the air.  
  
Sauron is shaking.  
  
“No, my Lord. Please.”  
  
But the Vala’s gaze is stone, and the Silmarils pierce through the dark.  The skin under his Master’s crown is peeling; small flakes of ash that haunt their way in a feather down to the floor.  
  
The rope coils tighter around his wrists; a whispered apology of Balrog thumbs melts along his palm.  
  
Gothmog is pitying him; and this somehow makes it worse.  For Mairon understands how abject he must appear, strung fast upon the pole.  
  
And Melkor’s eyes glint like ceylonite as he towers, tall and strong; for his boots are made of iron, and his heart is made of stone.  
  
There is a tremble upon the air, like Sauron’s terror is just a taste, some plum sick putrid blossom that smells like the first fading blue buds of spring.   
  
And nothing grows, here – not anymore. He misses the flowers; and how he _aches_ to get down – to land his feet in droplets upon the floor – but his arms tugs, wide, and Melkor is _staring_ , and the gaze cuts through him like the plunging cool of ice.  
  
He is in pain, and it radiates down through his chest.  
  
And Mairon wonders, through the crude cut of the knife, as Melkor stands before him, and drags the blade through the muscle of his pectoral – whether it is not his heart itself that is bleeding.  
  
“ _Please_ ,” He whispers, but the word is just a sound.  Just a cooling note that dries, in a crisp, along the thick humid heat of the dungeon air.  It settles in the cracks of the walls.  
  
It is gone.  
  
And Melkor is looking at him again, but to simply bare his teeth – pointed.  In a cast, they glitter under the light.  
  
“You must learn, Mairon.” He grinds, smooth voice of churning ore. “As all the rest.”  
  
But it is nonsensical; for this is _false_.   
  
There is _nothing_ to learn, for Mairon has done no wrong. It had been just a _slip_ – a simple _questioning_ of _plans_.  
  
And Melkor used to be able to take his inquisition: before them.  Before the skin sagged on his forehead and broke apart in splits; before the gleaming light of those dreadful Silmarils, and that burn – that _burn_ – _that burn_ –  
  
The blood trails in an ooze down the Maia’s front, and a moan worries its way out his gut.  His head hangs as he watches, watches Melkor’s gauntlet-clipped fingers duck, lurch the blade deep along his stomach, parting the thick folds of Mairon’s skin.  
  
The pain is strange, as it always is when Melkor punishes him – caught between some terrible agony and pinkened, seething delight.  He wishes, at times, that the Vala would simply snap his neck, bleed him black and rolled-eyed unto the shores.  He would again stand still amongst the sand, toes curled under the grains.   
  
He wonders what it tastes like to be dead.  
  
Untouchable.  
  
And it does not occur to him that his eyes have closed, now, nor that his head lolls loosely to the side. He can still feel the cuts, as they part in stitches through the threading of his skin.  The blood trails down his arms in a crease; he is stuck upon the pole.  
  
“Please.” Mairon murmurs into his shoulder – but it doesn’t stop; for the cut digs in deep right to his _bone_.  
  
And the sound;  
  
_It_ –    
  
_The sound_ : it never quite makes it to his ears.


End file.
